I Believe in a Thing Called Love
by iety
Summary: Crowley wakes up to the music of a certain band. Slightly slashy, and quite silly. ...yes, I know the title is crap.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing, other than a drawerful of action figures and some sketchbooks._

_Warning: Phonetic singing. Muahaha. _

__

Even though he doesn't need it, Crowley has a clock-radio. It sits on a little table by his bed, the alarm set, like most alarms, for a time that seemed like a good idea the previous night, but is just too bloody early come morning. It usually wakes him up with the annoying nasal chatter of a deejay, or music everyone's forgotten about, or something equally stupid. He derives a certain satisfaction from letting his arm fly out from under the covers like something spring-loaded, and smashing the daylights out of the snooze button.

But today, as a familiar guitar starts up, Crowley forgets all about the snooze button, sits bolt upright, and smiles. He _loves_ this song. _Loves_ it. As the drums explode onto the scene, he leaps out of bed and begins to dance.

It is said that demons move like a white band on Soul Train, which is mostly true. But Crowley has been paying attention, because dancing these days has become something synonymous with temptation, and Crowley needs to know temptation. He moves like sex and strong, fruit-flavored alcoholic drinks. You can almost see the press of bodies around him, someone behind him, hips moving in synchronization...

Crowley shimmies across the room and seizes a hairbrush, singing into it along with the radio, and making sure to go up on the high notes.

"_Can't explain all the feelings that you're makin' me fee-e-eel! My heart's in overdrive and you're behind the steerin' whee-e-eel!"_

There's something liberating in dancing around in your bedroom in naught but socks and boxers, singing into a hairbrush with wild, funky abandon. Crowley revels in it, moonwalking back to the radio and cranking up the volume. He can hear the speakers vibrating, just behind the music. Bugger the neighbors. Bugger his eardrums. This song is _good. _

"_Touching you-oo-oo! Touching me-ee-ee!"_

On the chorus the notes rise to their highest, and then plunge into the deep grinding of the guitar.

"_I believe in a thing called love! Just listen to the rhythm of my heart! There's a chance we can make it now! We'll be rocking 'til the sun goes down!" _

This band is like the gay AC/DC and the straight Queen. Bouncing around his bed, fist clenched stylishly around the hairbrush, wrist cocked, Crowley promises himself he'll buy their record next time he's out. Then he remembers something, and the CD appears on his pillow. Crowley grins, and throws his head back and rises up onto his toes and shrieks into the hairbrush.

"_I believe in a thing called lo-o-ove!" _

He tries to restrain himself from playing air guitar, and ends up doing so anyway. Music fanaticism is almost like a disease, or a nice departure from common sense.

Suddenly Crowley hears a soft noise from the doorway and looks up, the music fading from the foreground to the background. Aziraphale is standing there, one graceful eyebrow cocked. In Crowley's mind, Crowley dives for the radio, shoves the volume dial all the way down, realizes he's still holding the hairbrush, and tosses it aside, where it flies out the window.

But in real life, he keeps it together and flings his arms out in the angel's direction. Moving his hips in an even more blatant fashion, he sings, _sans _hairbrush.

"_I wanna kiss you every minute, every hour, every da-a-ay! You got me in a spin but everythin' is a-oka-a-ay!"_

Aziraphale just smirks and says, "very nice, Crowley. When you're done, breakfast is ready," and walks out.

Later, Crowley sang along with _Growing on Me_, and didn't really mind when Aziraphale stopped in the hall to listen. Anyway, that was the point.

---END---

I can't get rid of you  
I don't know what to do  
I don't even know who is growing on who  
'Cos everywhere I go you're there  
Can't get you out of my hair  
Can't pretend that I don't care - it's not fair  
  
I'm punished for all my offences  
I wanna touch you but I'm afraid of the consequences  
I wanna banish you from whence you came  
But you're part of me now  
And I've only got myself to blame  
  
You're really growing on me  
(Or am I growing on you?)  
You're really growing on me  
(Or am I growing on you?)  
Any fool can see  
  
Sleeping in an empty bed  
Can't get you off my head  
I won't have a life until you're dead  
Yes, you heard what I said  
  
I wanna shake you off but you just won't go  
And you're all over me but I don't want anyone to know  
That you're attached to me, that's how you've grown  
Won't you leave me, leave me alone  
  
You're really growing on me  
(Or am I growing on you?)  
You're really growing on me  
(Or am I growing on you?)  
Any fool can see  
  
You're really growing on me  
(Or am I growing on you?)  
You're really growing on me  
(Or am I growing on you?)

--Growing On Me, by The Darkness.


End file.
